Chapter 1

Arsen

“Oh baby, I love sucking this huge cock of yours,” Sophie says as she runs her tongue up and down my shaft in the way that only a stripper can. “It’s getting me so fucking horny.”

I can hear the steady beats of Lil’ John playing through the club as I look down through the glass at the main stage of the strip club. It’s a pretty crowded evening, and I idly wonder if some of the patrons—those poor, lonely schmos with no place else to be—realize that the mirrors they’re looking up at are really one-sided and that I can look down from them at any point. Including times like now, where I’m completely naked getting my cock sucked by a blonde stripper as a brunette one rubs her hands all over my body.

But just as soon as I wonder, the brunette—I think her name is Heather?—starts twisting my nipples and I decide it’s a stupid fucking thing to wonder about and I should just concentrate on the task at hand. That task being namely to fuck the living shit out of these two strippers—new girls to the club, but definitely old hands at this game. They know what’s fucking what, that’s for sure. The moment they started at the club, I could tell they were fucking eyeing me. Deciding if it was in their best interests to fuck me or not. Could they advance their careers by boning the owner?

Let me take a moment to fucking introduce myself, since it’s clear we haven’t met and you’re just now popping into the picture as I have my cock going in and out of one woman’s mouth and my hands roaming the fake tits of another.

My name is Arsen Hawke.

Yes, I know what you’re saying to yourself right now.

That Arsen Hawke. Yes. The 30-year old son of the billionaire smut lord of America. The son of the man the nation knows as the Corrupter. Collectively, my fucking dad is responsible for putting out 83 Internet live web cams, 23 Pay-Per-View channels, 3 magazines, and 5 different streaming porn services through the Internet. All beamed directly into your home for your little son or daughter to consume when you’re not looking – further destroying what little of the moral fiber is left of Western democratic values.

That Arsen Hawke that you read about in the tabloids. The same one that you see on E! Online. With the chiseled 8-pack abs, rugged face, icy blue eyes, and tattoos designed by some of the most gifted artists of our time. Fuck, I don’t even know why I’m describing myself. You know everything about me. You know that I’m good looking as fuck. That on the off-chance that I decided to stop by your town or city, you would probably tell your husband that you were going out so you could see me signing autographs at the mall. Just catch a glimpse. Maybe you’d hope to see me take off my shirt. Maybe you’d even get close enough to see my ripped physique. Fuck, maybe I would make eye contact with you and flex my pecs for you. Tell you to come closer so you could see my 1% body fat body. You’d be pretty close then, maybe I’d even touch you. That’s when you’d go fucking crazy, because that’s what I do to every girl around me.

You’d try not to at first, but you wouldn’t be able to help yourself from looking at the bulge in my pants. That 12-inches of pussy pleasing pistoning that you’ve read about. Fantasized about. You’d be so close to touching it. Tasting it.

If I told you to get in the limo with me, you wouldn’t even think about anything else. Fuck life. Forget every fucking obligation you ever had. All you’d want to do is get in for maybe the most illicit and exciting moment you’d ever have with someone who is fucking larger than life.

Once inside and in private, I’d take your hands in mine and tell you that this is temporary and it’s nothing permanent. You’d agree. Anything to have a taste of me. Anything for a feel. You’d nod your head, and I’d take my pants off, showing you my thick, pulsing, veiny cock.

And fuck if you wouldn't go fucking crazy. Sure, I’d let you suck it like these two strippers right now, who are both taking turns running their tongues around the tip of my cock. But then, I’d turn you over on all fours and I’d fuck the living shit out of you. I swear to fucking God you would cum enough times that by the time I was done with you, you would be nothing more than a quivering mess of flesh on the seat. Sex coma? Talk about fucking sex amnesia.

And you would do anything for another taste of that cock. Anything I fucking wanted you to do. That’s why I’d want to get the fuck away as soon as possible. But I would leave you with memories that would last a lifetime as I flew off to my next destination. Maybe Singapore. Or, maybe London. I hear it’s nice this time of year.

So, yeah, that Arsen Hawke.

But there's so much fucking more that you don’t know about me. What about the fact that I haven't talked to my dad in 6 years, ever since my mom died of cancer and got no help from him since he had already divorced her. That I’ve been living on my own, at the age of 30 at One57 on Billionaire’s Row in New York City. That despite my body and looks and my fucking cock, I have a fucking brain. Harvard fucking MBA, baby. But, no. You don't know that about me. And quite honestly, I’m not surprised.

“Arsen, I want your cock inside of me, baby,” Sophie moans in her most slutty voice. I look down at her. She sees the look in my eyes and smiles lusciously and takes Heather. The two trade a wet, sloppy kiss for my benefit, and then turn away from me, facing the window overlooking the club. They're both naked—fuck their strippers—what do you expect? But what really blows my brain is when they both bend over, jutting their asses out at me.

“Which one of us do you want to fuck first?” Heather asks, her eyes twinkling with this lust game that their playing for me.

I’m only fucking human, okay? I tear open the condom wrapper and sheath myself as I grab Sophie’s waist with both hands, and push my quivering cock into her pussy. She’s wet, I’ll give her that. But not really that tight. Fuck it, it’ll get the job done.

Within seconds, I have a good, steady clip going, pistoning in and out of Sophie’s canal as she moans lewdly. To further stimulate me, Heather starts licking and sucking Sophie’s tits. I’m building up my tempo, increasing my pace, and I can hear my balls slapping against the underside of Sophie’s ass in tune with the music.

“Fuck me, harder, Arsen!” Sophie screams and I oblige the slut, pounding into her with enough force to topple someone over. It’s a good thing she has the window as leverage, steadying herself as I go mercilessly at her cunt.

Another few seconds and I can tell I’ve gotten Sophie past the point of no return. Three more strokes, two, one, and bingo. Her pussy clamps up around my cock like a vice and I feel her entire body shudder.

“Oh fuck!” Sophie screams and I can tell that her body is being wracked by an orgasm as her muscles clench and unclench.

“My turn,” Heather says and uses her hands to play with my tennis-ball sized balls as I slow down. Heather guides me out of Sophie and leans her back on the window, lifting her leg and giving me easy access inside of her. I slide in, slick with Sophie’s juices and begin the process again as she wraps her arms around me.

I feel Heather’s tits against my chest. Sophie is still quivering and shaking next to me as the new song starts up.

And that’s when I fucking see her.

The new dancer that gets on stage.

She’s new. I know it. I’ve fucked so many of the fucking strippers in this club, they should seriously give me some sort of award for not catching any STDs. But then again, I always protect myself to the max.

But this girl. I’ve never seen her before.

Or have I? She seems so familiar, and she’s so beautiful I feel like I know her.

She’s got blonde hair that comes down to her shoulders. Fuck, her face is so fucking gorgeous. With the sweetest most innocent eyes and the most beautiful face. But so what if her face is sweet and innocent looking; her body is fucking sinful. Tits that are perfectly shaped and big. A perfectly tapered waist. Slender legs. An ass that's…

Fuck, I’m going to cum. I’m going to cum so fucking hard. I need to calm the fuck down. I can usually go forever. What the fuck is wrong with me?

“Baby, I just felt your balls tighten up,” Heather says with a wicked grin. “It’s okay, I know my pussy’s tight.”

Actually her pussy is the opposite of tight. I might as well be fucking a plastic bag, but I somehow don’t care at this point in time.

I’ve maybe only fucked Heather for five minutes now but I pull out, and toss off my condom as if in a daze.

It’s because I am in a daze. I’m staring at that girl as she twirls around on the pole.

My heart rate is increasing. I’m not going to last much longer.

Both Sophie—who’s calmed down and returned back to earth—and Heather get on their knees and start jerking me off. They use their tongues to rub the underside of my cock.

And more stimulating than what those women are doing, I look down and I see the stripper from Heaven bent over on the pole, shaking her ass.

Holy fucking Christ.

I can’t take anymore.

I fucking explode.

I shoot out arcs of cum. Rope after rope of cum is leaving my body and I feel electric impulses go from my nuts to my brain, paralyzing me. My muscles freeze and I can only experience the convulsions that tear through my body.

I watch as my semen lands on Heather's forehead, her chin, inside of her mouth, on Sophie’s tits, and on her nose. As I come back to reality, I can hear myself breathing harshly. I look down to see my cum dripping from both of their faces and chins onto their bodies.

Normally, I’d be pleased at my handiwork. But today, I search desperately for the stripper.

But apparently, her song is over because she’s leaving the stage.

I need to go downstairs. I need to talk to her.

But that’s when the phone rings.

My personal phone. My cell phone. Never ignored, because it’s always important.

And only one person usually ever uses it to call me. It’s no surprise that it’s on the windowsill behind the strippers. I reach over and grab it and turn it on. This better be quick. I need to go downstairs and find this girl.

Oh, what about the ones in front of me, you’re wondering? On their knees, cooing and purring and licking my cum?

Whatever. I don’t fucking care what they do tonight. I’m done with them.

“Gerard?” I say into the phone. He usually doesn't call in the evenings. He doesn't usually want to interfere whatever—or whoever—I’m doing.

“Arsen,” the calm off-English voice of Gerard comes through. “You need to meet me at the Plaza Hotel immediately. Your father just died of a massive heart attack.”

It’s like I hear the fucking words, but don’t understand them.

“Arsen,” Gerard says after a pause. “Your father, Sloane, is dead. You are now the sole owner of Hawke Media and you need to come over. Now.”

Well, fuck.

I need to get the fuck out. I need to go to the Plaza and meet Gerard.

Oh, listen, if you’re still here. This seems like it’s going to be a fun ride. You’re welcome to stay along. If it’s not your cup of fucking tea, no harm, no foul. But if you stay on and move onto the next page, then take my fucking advice and go somewhere you can be by yourself. And maybe take your panties off if you don’t want to do laundry. I won’t have time to remind you because I gotta get to the fucking Plaza. Like now.